


I Sleep In Your Old Shirts And Walk Through This House In Your Shoes

by FOBPatrickStumpTrash



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Eating Disorder, Overdose, Pre-hiatus, Self-Esteem, Suicide Attempt, Weight Issues, andy and joe are only mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 10:59:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14042796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FOBPatrickStumpTrash/pseuds/FOBPatrickStumpTrash
Summary: Patrick writes out his flaws on paper, or areas he’d like to improve in. He can’t help that he’s a perfectionist, he won’t rest until he is perfect.Unfortunately, the pressure to meet his own high standards convinces him that the only way out isn’t too pleasant.





	I Sleep In Your Old Shirts And Walk Through This House In Your Shoes

It’s quiet. The tour bus is silently making it’s way against the darkened sky and the soft droplets of rain against the windshield and windows can be heard if you take the time to listen. Snores can be heard throughout the bus, but only two remain awake, completely unaware of the other’s consciousness. Patrick sighs, running fingers through his messy strawberry blonde hair as he sits up in his bunk, finally having given up on sleep. 

The harassment is horrible, it eats away at the young singer. He’s a perfectionist, he always wishes he could be good enough for everyone. The band, the industry, the fans, the media, even the haters. Patrick loses sleep to this, he stays awake until impossibly late hours contemplating ways he could make himself better. Patrick finds that he has done this so often, he should start keeping track on the ways he could improve. He had ripped a sheet of lined paper from a notebook that had once belonged to Pete and written down a few things in black ink that he needs to fix, and how he plans on doing so, being careful not to smudge the words of imperfections.

The first thing he ever wrote down was ‘replace meals with water.’ 

Patrick was very aware that looking up your name online when you were already half way famous was like playing some sort of Russian roulette with your self esteem. Every article seemed to reflect him in negative light, and his weight seemed to be mentioned a few more time then necessary. People’s opinions hadn’t REALLY mattered to him until shortly after the release of From Under The Cork Tree, while they seemed to be rising to stardom. Eventually, all he could think about was how many shirts or jackets he needed to wear in order to be invisible, and how many hats would block his horrified, shy eyes from the angry words of hatred spewed by their very own fans, almost none of it went towards Pete, Andy, or Joe. It was saved to point out Patrick’s obvious flaws. 

“Too fat.”

“Did you hear that voice crack?” 

“God, he’s so ugly.” 

“I can’t believe Pete is wasting such effort in him.” 

Patrick knew it shouldn’t hurt, but it did. He wanted to be better for everyone, so people could be proud to listen to Fall Out Boy and not have to think about how heavy the lead singer was. He felt pressured to lose the weight as quickly as he could, even if it wouldn’t be a healthy method. 

Another thing on the list was just the word ‘Pete’. 

Patrick knew that whenever Pete was awake this late, he was contemplating things too. Imagining up lyrics and poems, trying to fit the words together yet still make them rhyme, attempting to dream of tomorrow when he knew his insomnia would keep him from doing so. 

Sometimes, the thougts weren’t as pleasant. Sometimes the thoughts were of cold, bitter ends, of empty pill bottles or blood splattered razors. 

Patrick wanted to take these thoughts away from Pete and wrap the older man in his pale arms and mutter words of kindness into his ears. Maybe hum him a song until his eyes fluttered shut. Patrick would never do so unless asked though, he’d never know the right way to say these things anyways. That was Pete’s job, finding the perfect way to twist words of self hatred into a beautiful lyric or song, Patrick’s was to sing whatever words Pete fed him through paper and help create a melody that would set the mood. 

Patrick hated every little bit of his existence. To the space he took up, to every little breathe he wasted drowning in his own self-depreciating truths. He hated the way he put both his feet on the floor and stood up, he hated the soft foot steps that could be heard as he tip-toed to the very small bathroom of the tour bus and he definitely hated the way he forgot to shut the door as he opened he medicine cabinet and poured an entire bottle of medication into his shaking hands. He lifted his hand up to his mouth, he wanted to shove little white pills of fake happiness past his pink lips and down his throat until all he could see was darkness and the only sound present was the bitter silence of death. 

A hand caught his wrist before he took the opportunity to end his life. It forced his hand down gently and the pills scattered across the bathroom floor. Patrick looked up to see that the hand belonged to Pete Wentz, his eyeliner smudged and his dark, unkept hair was covering half of his face, yet his expression was worried and pained with anxiety, almost a desperation. 

“Patrick, please don’t do this. You’ll regret it the second these pills enter your mouth. It’s not worth it.” Pete pleaded. Patrick looked up at him but no words were present, only a heart-wrenching sob. 

“I’m sorry... it all just feels like too much sometimes.” Patrick whispered as tears dripped down his face, wetting Pete’s shirt. 

“Shh... it’s okay...” Pete whispered back as his hand lifted up Patrick’s chin so that their eye’s would meet. “You’re eyes are so beautiful, ‘Tricky... they’re baby blue... I’m going to write a song about them someday.” Pete smiled softly as Patrick softly chuckled and wiped a few tears away from his pale face. 

“I’ve always wished I could trade mine for yours if I’m being honest... your eyes are wide-eyed and a perfect shade of whiskey brown.” Patrick sighed as Pete smiled a little more and brought the singer into his open arms. 

“Hey... is this my Green Day shirt?” Pete asked as he grinned. Patrick smiled back sheepishly. 

“Yeah, I’ve slept in a few of your old shirts. They just make me feel secure I guess... sorry.” 

“No, keep this. It looks better on you anyways. And, if I’m being honest, I’ve borrowed a shirt from you on an occasion or two. I just feel... like I got you in my arms when I do..?” Pete sighed and Patrick blushed, the shadows of the room hid his red complexion. No words were exchanged after that, only the sound of blankets being moved around and a content sigh from Patrick as Pete wrapped his toned arms around the younger boy, as if trying to prove to himself that he wouldn’t let the singer harm himself. 

Plus, Patrick was always the perfect medication to treat Pete’s insomnia.


End file.
